Sanctuary

The services for my aunt Nell were on a Friday. The visitation was the Thursday evening before the services.

Tom and I decided that Olivia is old enough and mature enough to attend both the visitation and the services.

Alyssa had to work Thursday evening so she couldn’t come to the visitation but she did come to the services.

Because I’m that mom, I sent the girls to school for two hours that Friday. I mean, it was only fair, I went to work for three hours so…

The service was lovely. Grammy Dotty was adorable. She arrived about ten minutes late, made her way to the front row, talking to everyone she passed, saying, “Ohh, hi, sugar!”

Remember, she’s 94, mostly deaf and blind in one eye. She deserves a lot of slack.

My mom and all but one of my aunts got up to talk about their sister Nell. They told stories from their childhood, talked about Nell’s candor and her strength, her enormous capacity to love.

After each person finished speaking, Grammy Dotty asked, “Oh, I wish I could hear! Can I get a transcript of that?”

It lightened the tone of the service and made people chuckle.

After the service, we all headed down to the basement of the church where the ladies of the community had prepared food for us. Well, okay. The ladies of the community DID prepare food but my mom, her sisters, my cousin’s wife, and even I made plenty of the food too.

The girls and I managed to get to the bathroom first immediately after the service. Ha on all the ladies who were waiting outside that door when the three of us filed out, like a mother duck and her little ducklings. Sorry, ladies, you snooze, you risk peeing your pants!

After we spent a ridiculous amount of time in the bathroom, A and O and I made our way to the basement.

For reference, this is the church I grew up going to vacation bible school in. It’s also the church where Tom and I got married. We had Amy’s funeral service there two years ago.

Though, let me be honest here, I don’t remember it smelling vaguely of urine any of those times. This time…the urine smell was quite unpleasant…vague but unpleasant.

Also, this church has not been updated in, oh, at least 40 years. Same carpet as when I attended for VBS, same pews, same tables and chairs in the basement.

But it’s kind of nice that some things never change. I do so hope, though, that someone will Fabreze the hell out of the carpet and pews some time soon. That urine smell could change and we’d all be happy. Just saying.

After partaking of the luxurious lunch provided by the lovely ladies of the Metz community (I am only being slightly sarcastic here…) Olivia was bored.

She’d had two and a half servings of beef and noodles, half a brownie, two cups of sweet tea, a cup of green jello with melted whipped cream. She was stuffed and ready to recline.

She’s also sat there listening to Jaxon lament the woes of young love. Apparently, there’s a girl in his class (he’s in 5th grade…FIFTH GRADE, for the love of Pete!) and they talked a bit, then he ‘caught feelings’ and then she ‘caught feelings’ and now she’s his girlfriend. (Is ‘caught feelings’ a thing the young pups of this world are saying? It’s weird, but whatever.)

Then he started standing on one foot, leaning like a fool, stating, over and over and over again, telling us that he’s the only one in his class who has to lean like that when they stand on one foot. What are they doing in his fifth grade class?

I, fool that I am, suggested that perhaps he has scoliosis, which is why he has to lean in order to stay standing when he’s only on one foot. This set him off an a scoliosis tangent that is probably still going even all these days/weeks later. Sigh.

So Olivia asked me if I had any paper and a writing implement with which she could doodle.

I told her I had something in my purse, which was in my car. She lit up. We could LEAVE that basemen (and, coincidentally, Jaxon and his new scoliosis fear) and go get the pen and paper from my car.

Which we did. Because I’m an accommodating mother. Also, I was really looking for an excuse to escape that boy too. We’re bad relatives but he’s also an odd duck.

Once we’d retrieved the notepad and pen, Olivia suggested we go to the sanctuary, which was blessedly quiet. There were a few people in there, but not nearly as many as were in the basement. The sun was shining in the tall windows and there was just a sense of peace in the air.

Olivia kicked off her boots (tangent: she needs to start wearing socks with those boots. When she doesn’t her feet REEK after she takes off the boots) and her the smell of her feet competed with the smell of urine in the air.

I didn’t stick around long to see which odor won.

I talked to my cousin Chet (he’s Nell’s son). I helped my mom and her sisters take down the displays they’d put up the day before. I carried vases of flowers out to my mom’s car. I hugged my cousin’s wife and thanked her for all she’d done.

I checked on Olivia and her feet a few times but she told me that I didn’t have to stay around her. She’d found a quiet place to doodle and was happy as a stuffed clam in that sanctuary.

I loved watching her in that pew. She seemed peaceful, relaxed. That’s not a state Olivia is usually in when we’re out and about.

I don’t know if it’s the meds, the calm of the church, the presence of God. But something about that moment struck me. My girl is growing up. We’ll have times when we backtrack but right now, we’re moving forward and I thank God for that every single day.

Happy Birthday

Today is Amy’s birthday. The first one since she died in February. I can only imagine how hard this day must be for her mom, for her kids, for the love she left behind.

Amy’s daughter is pregnant with Amy’s first grandchild. I think she’s due next month. It’s a girl.

Amy would have been so thrilled. I believe she is thrilled, watching from heaven.

I also believe she’s still loving all of us, watching out for us, keeping us safe and reminding us each day that we’re loved.

When we were growing up, Amy was my favorite cousin. She was only thirteen months older than I am but she always seemed so much more mature. She was very protective even when we were little kids.

She had a tough time of it as a teenager and a young adult but she figured it out and left her kids with a legacy of love. They knew they were deeply, thoroughly loved.

She loved a lot in her 48 years. She left a legacy of love and devotion.

Who would ever think at 24 that they have lived half their life? It seems so unfair. I know she had more she wanted to do but it’s so much better to focus on all that she did do.

She lived. She loved. She raised strong, smart, kind children and that’s important work right there.

I pray that if my time is shorter than I want it to be that I can get as much loving in as Amy did. I hope my kids feel my love even when I’m not here to tell them and show them.

I’ve felt her with me in the months since she died. I’ve felt her comforting presence, letting me know that it’s all going to be okay, no matter how it ends. She’s been here with so many of us, loving us in her new way.

I’m grateful that I knew her. I’m grateful that I got to watch her mother her kids and feel the love she had for so many.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Amy. You are remembered. You are missed. You are loved.

Dates, Complaints, Pulling It Together

I have all these days swimming around in my head. August 21...diagnosis. September 5...surgery. October 17...started first batch of chemo. December 19...started second batch of chemo. December 18...last day of work. November 27...Olivia's birthday. January 14...Alyssa's birthday.

February 3...Amy died. She died. She died. She died.

She died and yet I still have all these petty little complaints rolling around my thoughts.

My hands have a rash on them. It's ugly and itchy and while at play musical practice last week, I was working with some of the moms on the costume committee. One mom in particular and I were working on the horse that Farquad uses to meet Princes Fiona. We were taping a piece of fabric to this inflatable horse, trying to make it look like a saddle. I noticed how smooth and young her hands looked. She and I are the same age. My hands are gross. But I'm alive, so why am I thinking about how ugly my hands are?

I feel like it is so much work to try and sleep in my bed these days. The best sleep I get is sleeping in the recliner from about 8am to noon on Wednesday mornings after my Tuesday night insomnia. My bed makes me congested, it makes my hips hurt. I have to pee every two hours and I have to roll my gross fat body out of bed, lumber to the bathroom, pee, get a drink of water to try and alleviate the dry mouth I have because I'm so congested that I've become a mouth breather. I blow my nose and get these gross globs of bloody snot. It's disgusting. Then I go back to be and do it all over again. Yes, I'm sleeping with a humidifier next to me. Yes, I've tried Benadryl to help with both the hand rash and the congestion. It just dries me out that much more. I have five pillows in my bed to try and help with the aches and pains. They don't actually help much at all.

I'm back to sleeping in a bra because for the couple of weeks that I tried to sleep without one, my incision started to hurt. My boobs were pulling at it in a way that was painful. I'm a delight and lovely to be around.

Hats...I'm so sick of wearing hats. I'm lucky that it's winter and so no one thinks anything of my hats but my stupid head gets to hot after a few hours in a hat and when I'm in public, I'm not actually that comfortable taking off my hat, even though my hair is growing back. It's only about a quarter of an inch long, though, so not nearly long enough to go without the hat.

But can I say that when I see people wearing stocking caps as a fashion statement, I feel a rage well up in me that makes me want to go and snatch the hat off their stupid hairy heads, fill the hat with butter and beat them with it. Obviously, I don't do this but I want to because they have NO IDEA what it means to HAVE to wear a stupid had day in and day out and it just kind of in infuriates me.

I realize this is not rational. I know. I don't actually care, though, since I know I won't ever actually assault anyone with a butter beanie.

Steroids are evil. I know I need them to help keep the worst of the allergic reactions at bay. But the munchies, the insomnia, the irritation (see the above mention of wanting to use a butter beanie on fashion hat wearers.) They're tough to deal with. I've gained about six pounds in the past ten weeks. I have no energy to do anything about these eight pounds. I just want to eat waffles at 3am after taking a hot bath. Yeah, real conducive to losing weight.

I'm so tired.

I only have two more chemo sessions. Tom and I are meeting the radiologist tomorrow morning at 8. I'll know more about that after the appointment, obviously. I want to be well. I want to go back to work (sort of...) I want to take care of my husband and kids.

I know I'll get to. As long as I'm still here, I have a fighting chance. I know this. And knowing that Amy doesn't, well, it makes me feel like such a whiny brat. I will pull it all together now that I've given myself a moment to feel a little sorry for myself and get all my complaints out of my head.

I'll be okay. Hey, on the bright side, I've managed to avoid the dreaded diarrhea...I can always fall back on that.

A Memorial

We had my cousin's memorial last Thursday. It's tough having a memorial for a 48 year old. I mean, I'm 47, so 48 feels REALLY young to me. Aren't we basically 16? Sixteen is way too young to die. So is 48.

There was so much I wanted to say during her memorial and yet...I didn't stand up and say anything. All of The Aunts spoke. (My grandma has 6 living daughters, since my teens my cousins and I have always called them The Aunts. The Aunts run the family.)

They talked about how loving Amy was right from the start, how much she loved babies, even when she was just a baby herself. They talked about her bright, sunny spirit, her love for her family, especially her two kids. They cried and made the rest of us cry.

Growing up, there were six of us kids that were separated by about nine years from oldest (Tanya) to youngest (Jason.) We were the offspring of four of The Aunts (there were more to come, but they were basically a half a generation behind the six of us.) We were always together, always finding trouble and backing each other when we did.

After the memorial, there was a dinner in the basement of the church. Fun fact, Tom and I got married in that church. It is a block away from the house I grew up in. The Ladies of the church provided a lot of the food for the dinner but The Aunts provided most of it. Even in grief, they take charge and manage everything. It's just who they are.

I was hugged a lot during that dinner. So many people offered their prayers for my continued treatments and healing. Quite a few reminded me that Amy would not want me to indulge in survivor's guilt. Some told me that my recovery was no longer just my recovery but also a tribute to Amy. No pressure, right? Some expressed surprise that I was at the service at all, saying I should avoid crowds and germs. I reminded them that I have two kids in public school, germs are a given. I also told anyone who said anything about it that the whole point of treatment is to keep living. I can't lock myself away and wait it out.

Tom and I talked quietly during the dinner. He informed me that when he dies, he wants to be cremated and then have his ashes spread during the following family reunion. He thought that would be a nice tribute. He also declared that he doesn't want any sort of service. He said it didn't make sense to him. I will remind him at a later date that services such as the one we were attending aren't so much for the dead as they are for the living. And I'll tell him that if his children want a service, I will have one for them. If it gives them comfort and a sense of closure, well, it's the least we can do for them.

This is all assuming that he dies before I do. That is obviously not a given.

I think it was my brother who told me not to feel guilty for continuing my fight against cancer and for living. He then turned to Tom and told him he shouldn't feel guilty for my health and for still having his wife in his life. Tom shook Jason's hand and said he wasn't feeling so bad about that as much as he was fighting his own guilt over his continued good health while I endure chemo and fight to regain my health.

This was the first I'd heard of Tom feeling guilty for being well while I battle cancer. I expressed my surprise over this and he shrugged, "Well, I am older than you are. I'm supposed to be the one who gets sick."

Yeah, it doesn't work that way but it was a very sweet sentiment.

It also proves my suspicion that it's harder for him to watch me go through all this than it is for me to actually go through it.

My prayer is that my cousin Amy is at peace, that she's celebrating in Heaven with my uncles, Grice (aka Smokey) and Keith. She loved a good party and I pray they're up there dancing with the angels.

No Words - Or Maybe All the Words

Before I started chemo but after my diagnosis and surgery to remove my tumor, my cousin, who is just a year old than I am, was hospitalized. After a week in the hospital, she was released with a diagnosis of cancer. But they weren't sure what her primary cancer was.

The details aren't mine to share but the grief is.

She died on Saturday after months of treatments, hospitalizations, suffering and fighting. Her doctor says she probably had this cancer, whatever type it was, for more than two years.

By the time she died, the tumor on her neck was pushing into her windpipe, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep and yet, she couldn't wake up.

I know my family isn't all the different from other families in that my mom and her siblings raised their kids more like siblings than cousins. We spent summers together, the six of us. My mom and three of her sisters all lived within two blocks of each other and we kids were sent outside at 9am and expected back in for dinner around 6. We were always together. Sometimes it was all six of us, sometimes, we'd separate into two groups of three, separated by gender.

I don't know where I'm going with this.

Maybe I just need to mark the day, write a reminder of all that she meant to all of us. Amy has two kids, Truman and Hannah. They're both grown now, but you never don't need your mom. My heart is broken for them.

This all brings the fact that cancer kills to the forefront of my brain. I know we caught mine early and I don't want to make Amy's diagnosis and death about me. But isn't that what we do? We make everything about us. It's all about our perspective, how we handle things as they happen. She's the closest person I've ever lost. I know how lucky that makes me. But acknowledging that luck doesn't make losing her any less sucky. I guess I'll take Julie's advice and wallow in the yuckiness of it all for a while. That's often how grief works.

She will be missed. She is loved. Her memory lives on and will continue to do so.

I will continue to fight my own battle because how can I not?

I pray she's at peace, she's resting, she's no longer fighting and suffering. I pray for her mom, her children, her boyfriend, who loved her so. I pray for all of us every single day.